


Water and Clouds

by sweaterstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:29:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweaterstiel/pseuds/sweaterstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sea beckons and the birds call and the shrubs and trees point the way. (A short story of freedom and escape told from the eyes of high school aged Dean Winchester.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water and Clouds

He stands there, by the ocean, looking out into the vastness that is the deep blue expanse of salt water. It crashes upon the shore in a way that seems almost too gentle for its wild nature, and perhaps that is simply because everything else is still and calm. The bay is small and empty besides the presence of us two. The sand is almost indescribable in that it is lighter than your average sand but not quite white. Thankfully there are no palm trees, just shrubs and skinny pines, because palm trees are overly stereotypical of beaches and frankly would ruin the whole point of being here.

He looks like he is waiting for something in the way that his thin body stands still facing the sea. Clouds cover the dawn sky in a blanket of warm, light grayness; the kind of fog that is refreshing and welcoming rather than dull and saddening, though if you’d ask him, he would say that all fog is refreshing and welcoming and none is dull and saddening – that notion of fog simply being an error in human perception. I like this fog because he loves it.

He looks like he is waiting for something and there is no way to know what it is. School and life and family and people can all be too much sometimes and everybody every once in a while could use an escape. To someplace quiet and empty where you can be alone or semi-alone or whatever suits you. To someplace by the sea, and not where it crashes and breaks against jagged rocks but rather where it shakes hands with the shore and then slowly recedes only to return again in a never-ending cycle. To someplace with green shrubs and skinny pines. To someplace where the fog hugs the sky and dances upon the horizon.

I will not ask him what he is waiting for because that would require him to share his thoughts and thoughts are precious things that should be shared only when the thinker wishes to and not when he is asked. Thoughts are personal and they are his so I will remain quiet and let the waves and the wind and the birds do the talking for the both of us. Silence is nonexistent and sound is always present, even if it were your own breathing or the subtlest shift in the wind. I strongly believe in too much sound and the need for an escape to a nice almost-silence and so does he and that is why we have left and come here.

His dark hair serves as a contrast against the light gray sky and the light blue sea and the light tan sand. I cannot see his eyes from where I stand behind him but I have committed their blueness to memory and I know that they must match almost perfectly with the water extended in front of him. He looks beautiful as he watches the waves and the birds. He once told me that love is a term that is widely overused and thus he is “completely and immeasurably fond” of me. I am completely and immeasurably fond of him, magnified in these moments in which I would not rather be with anyone else.

I do not know what he is waiting for as he gazes out at the sea, but I will wait with him. I will always wait with him. I move my feet across the sand as the ocean laps at the shore and the gulls cry until I am standing next to him. I go to hold his hand, pushing up the tips of his sweater that have clung too far down his fingers as I do so. I do not look at him, but at the sea. He turns and looks at me.

“Dean,” he breathes and it is not a name but an expression of feelings.

“Cas,” I reply and it is not a name but a reassurance that I feel the same way.


End file.
